


Achilles is Go

by bitterness_is_a_paralytic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Character Death, Emotional Sherlock, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt, Suicide, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-05
Updated: 2014-03-05
Packaged: 2018-01-14 14:39:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1270201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitterness_is_a_paralytic/pseuds/bitterness_is_a_paralytic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock predicts the triggering of Plan Rafael. Mycroft firmly believes in the activation of Plan Lazarus. Both Holmeses steadfastly ignore the looming possibility of Plan Achilles, though they are suitably prepared for it.</p><p>Plan Achilles is a not-at-all amusing play on the Achaean warrior who had fallen at the height of his glory, at the Trojan gates. In fact, Plan Achilles cannot be called a plan at all—not exactly. If anything, it is a prediction of the other thirteen plans gone horribly awry. It is but the preparation of a tragedy, that of a detective on a tall roof with no option but to jump.</p><p>-------------</p><p>“Plan Achilles is the one course of action Mycroft had hoped to never take. But it is all too late now. Within a minute, his reply is sent.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Achilles is Go

**Author's Note:**

> Written while listening to “All of Me” by John Legend, if you were happening to look for a soundtrack.
> 
> (I may or may not have written up an epilogue for this, but that is yet to be determined.)

Mycroft is waiting when his phone vibrates. In moments, the text is glowing on his screen, and something subtle in his chest drops.

**ACHILLES**

Emotion flickers on his face for the slightest second, and then his lips are pursed tightly, just barely. No one will notice the smallest crinkles of worry by his eyes, the faintest shadows of weariness pulling his eyebrows down.

Half a minute after he has received the text, the orders are sent. The rest is left to Sherlock. They had been prepared for every possible scenario. Plan Achilles is the one course of action Mycroft had hoped to never take. But it is all too late now. Within a minute, his reply is sent.

**ACHILLES IS GO**

Mycroft allows himself one moment in which his eyes scrunch tight and he pinches the bridge of his nose, breathing deeply. There is no going back from this point.

Mycroft Holmes will never see his baby brother again.

**

* * *

**

_“You cannot allow him to watch if it were to happen for real,” Sherlock snapped. “Don’t be ridiculous! He would be destroyed!”_

_“Sherlock,” Mycroft closed his eyes briefly, “it is much too late to think that now.”_

_“Mycroft,” Sherlock growled warningly._

_“He must watch you jump. Surely you know that, brother mine? Otherwise he will spend the rest of his life wondering if you are truly dead. He will think that since he did not see it happen, it cannot possibly be true. That would be infinitely crueler.”_

_“I know,” Sherlock hissed in frustration, verdigris eyes flaming._

_“He must watch, Sherlock. It is the least you can do.”_

_Sherlock slumped, lips pressed tight. Mycroft knew this was the closest to consent he would get from his brother. He stood, preparing to leave._

_“Make sure…” Sherlock’s voice was low. “Make sure John is fine. After.”_

_A ghostly smile twisted Mycroft’s lips, his eyes faintly bitter. “I will take care of him, brother,” he assured, voice smooth._

_“Undoubtedly,” Sherlock muttered._

_Mycroft left, umbrella tapping lightly on the wooden floors._

**

* * *

**

“Sherlock. Sherlock, where are you? It was a—you knew Mrs. Hudson was—”

“I’m on St. Bart’s.” Sherlock’s voice is smooth velvet.

“On—? What do you mean on—” John freezes, standing on the pavement. “No,” he says slowly, eyes travelling up to the roof two blocks down. “You can’t be serious.”

John can hear faint laughter through his mobile. Moriarty’s. 

“You’re not— _Sherlock_ —” John’s voice is pleading. 

“I am sorry,” Sherlock murmurs lowly. “John.”

“I’m coming—”

“Do not,” Sherlock orders fiercely. In an urgent voice, he explains, “This is the only way. I cannot come down, and you cannot come up—”

“What is he going to do? If I come up,” John interrupts, mobile hand shaking slightly.

“You are in danger.” And an emotion that sounds foreign in Sherlock’s voice carries through crackling mobile connection and the wind rattling on the hospital roof. He continues, calmly, “Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson.”

“No,” John breathes, horrified. “He used us to—you mean—”

“Don’t be daft, John.” There is a familiar, not-quite-sincere exasperation in his voice. “What is done is done.”

“Sherlock—” 

Moriarty says something faintly in the background, giggling, and Sherlock’s voice tightens. “It would be in your best interest to believe the media. It will be less strain on your life if you believe me to be a fake, it would increase your chances of recovery afterwards. I apologise for the ridicule that will ensue because of your association with me, although I cannot quite say why I am sorry of that now, seeing as I have never wished you to not be acquainted with—”

“Shut up, Sherlock, _shut up_ ,” John says, and he struggles to breathe deeply. “I’ll never believe—how could I do that? How could you think I would ever want to believe that?”

There is a silence on the other end. “Why would you not?” Sherlock asks softly, in low tones.

A mirthless laugh. “You are an amazing, fantastic, brilliant—you’re—you’re a bloody genius! I don’t think I could forget that if I tried—if I even _wanted_ to! I owe you so much—I had been—and you—” 

Sherlock’s voice is deep. “John.” 

“Sherlock,” John breathes, and his vision is like red silk when he closes his eyes. “God, Sherlock. I can’t—I don’t want everyone to think that you’re a sham. I don’t want,” John swallows hard, then says softly, “I don’t want the world to forget you.” 

A gentle, trembling exhale. “Nothing is ever forgotten, as long as someone is left to remember.” 

Once the first tear slips from the corner of his left eye, John can’t stop the rest from escaping. He lets them fill his eyes, until the distant rooftop is a shimmer of crystal drops under sunlight, until he can fool himself into thinking that he can blink this world away. “I’ll never forget.” 

Though John cannot see it, a smile curves the tip of Sherlock’s mouth, regretful and fond and bitter. “Obviously.” 

Suddenly, it is incredibly important that Sherlock knows John _means_ it, means every word, that he will think of this beautiful man until the moment John breathes his last. “If I’m the only one left in the world who believes, Sherlock. I’ll never forget that you are the most—insane, incredible, _extraordinary_ man I have ever met.” John finds it increasingly harder to breathe. “I’ll never—” His throat is dry.

“It’s okay, John,” Sherlock says, though it is anything but and his voice is like cracked glass, glittering sharp and broken. 

“Sherlock—” John knows he is near-incoherent, knows he is trying to say too much with too little time, but his mouth is filled with all the words he has left unspoken. 

“Don’t, John.” A pause, and a sharp breath of air. “Please—do not make this any more difficult than it already is.”

This is the first time Sherlock has ever said the word ‘please’ to him, and it’s such a ridiculous thing to notice that John can’t help but laugh a touch hysterically. When he catches his breath, he chokes, “It really doesn’t get much worse than this, does it?” There is a warm wetness on his cheeks, salt burning on his cracked lips.

 _(Jump, Sherlock,_ Moriarty sighs impatiently, all Irish silk and deadly venom. _Be a dear and jump already, won’t you?)_

“John,” Sherlock says, and it’s the resigned tone of voice that tips John over the edge.

“No—don’t—” John can’t breathe, he _can’t breathe_ and all he can say is, “ _Sherlock_ , please don’t—!”

“Watch me, John.” It is a last plea, deep and sombre, crackling with crystalline fissures and regret. “Watch me fall. Will you do that for me?”

“As if I could—” John sucks in a breath. “As if I could look away.”

The sharp cut of the tall detective raises an arm, dark against the pretty blue sky. Reaching towards the skyline opposite of him. Reaching towards John.

“It has been the utmost pleasure, John Hamish Watson,” Sherlock says formally, voice gravelly and steady. His arm lifts towards the china blue, fingers splayed. “To the best of times,” Sherlock toasts, voice only slightly hoarse with emotion, and then— “Thank you.”

“Oh _God_ no,” John breathes, saltwater dripping from his chin. “I’ll never forget you. Oh _Christ_ ,” and then the reality hits him full force and John can’t help but cry out, “ _Sherlock_ —there is so much I have to say—”

“I know.” And with those two words, John’s knees give. There is a forlorn smile in Sherlock’s voice. “I know it all, John.”

“Of course you do.” John is blinded by the bright sunlight and sweet blue sky, by the tears marking sweeping lines down his cheeks. “You always do.” 

There is a pale ghost of a laugh, shaking and brief. 

John’s world narrows to this. Only this. “Sherlock,” he whispers reverently, desperately, as if it is a prayer that will gift his detective ivory wings, graceful and feathered, soaring them away from the inevitable. “Oh God, _Sherlock_.”

“Watch me fall,” Sherlock murmurs. “Don’t look away.”

“Never,” John manages to promise.

A shaky laugh and a small, almost inaudible sob. “Goodbye, John.”

The silhouette tips forward.

**

* * *

**

Moriarty laughs and laughs on the roof. 

How delightful—he had actually _jumped_. Sherlock Holmes had surprised Moriarty. Jim had expected anything else, really—tricks, help from big brother Mycroft, maybe even from mousy Molly. He had been looking for a hidden ace—after all, Sherlock _had_ texted his brother when he thought Moriarty’s back was turned, but really? Nothing?

But no. Sherlock had taken the pencil from Moriarty’s hand and filled in the ending he’d been told to write. He had said so himself—

“You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you.”

Beautiful.

“Go on,” he sings happily, raising his arms above his head. “I know you want to, Iceman. Finish the story!” 

From seven locations Moriarty had easily pinpointed the moment he had walked on the roof, snipers ready themselves, fingers poised over their triggers. 

“It doesn’t matter, you know,” Moriarty sighs thoughtfully, his high Irish lilt singsongy. “It’s too late. Sherlock Holmes is dead. The end!”

Seconds later, seven perfectly honed bullets drive home into Moriarty’s flesh and he falls dead on the roof, grinning madly at the soft blue sky.

**

* * *

**

No one pushes John away from Sherlock’s broken form. Gingerly, he feels the cracked skull and his fingers tangle in the blood-soaked curls, running over the porcelain of closed eyes and the sharp ridges of delicate bones under skin. His fingers brush, disbelieving, over smooth, creamy skin stained crimson, over closed eyelids and warm tears clinging to dark lashes. John cradles the broken remains of a brilliant detective, hands cupped around the familiar face and his forehead centimetres from the other man’s. Briefly, John presses his eyes shut, tight. A tear falls from the tip of his nose, continuing its hesitant path down Sherlock’s cheek. 

It can’t be true. It cannot. 

But Sherlock is still. Silent, empty, and still. 

Scarlet paints the pavement bloody, turning dull grey cobblestones vivid with the remnants of Sherlock’s life. Even as his fingers seek Sherlock’s wrist (foolishly, _impossibly_ hopeful), even as he presses his fingers there and prays, John knows it is all futile. There is no weak thrum of the pulse, no slight shift of the chest, no twitch of the fingers. 

Sherlock is—

It cannot be true, but it is. It _is_ , and John wants to slaughter everyone in sight, his rage and grief roaring in his ears.

Sherlock is dead. The most intense, brilliantly intelligent and _beautiful_ man John has ever known. The man who brought colour, vivid and bright, back into John’s grey life, who shot golden arrows of adrenalin into his blood and who is now—now, lying lifeless on the pavement.

And then John weeps over Sherlock’s body, shoulders wracked with sobs that threaten to tear his body apart. He cries, knowing no one else will; he cries because he is utterly exhausted, and to stop the tears is to try and stop his heart from breaking. And it is then that John Watson finally shatters, jaggedly and roughly, tears scalding and face pressed into a dead man’s chest, hands fisted white over the collar of a bloody Belstaff coat.

No one pushes John away from Sherlock’s broken form. No one pushes him away until much later, when John is unable to breathe and a terribly aching numbness has seeped into his hollow bones, when his empty blue eyes have gone pale with disbelieving grief.


End file.
